


when the curtain falls

by ghostproofbaby



Category: Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Sad Spencer Reid, Someone give spencer a hug, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Spencer Reid Smut, THERE WILL BE SMUT AT SOME POINT :-), it's just my specialty im sorry, it's kind of a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26638780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostproofbaby/pseuds/ghostproofbaby
Summary: spencer reid never realized a stranger spilling a latte all over his ten thousand dollar book would ever bring him so much happiness.a story about coffee-ruined books, love lost, piano, and healing.[criminal minds fanfic set during season 8/season 9 of criminal minds. spoilers for these seasons!! maeve WAS canon]
Relationships: Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/William LaMontagne Jr., Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	1. a conversation

“It’s just math, essentially. Just about anyone could play if they figure out the equation.”

She laughs, and it’s music to his ears.

“There is no equation, Spencer.”

“ _Actually,_ there is, technically spea-“

“I’m not disagreeing that anyone could play if they really want to. But not everyone can _perform_.”

“Play, perform, isn’t it the same thing?”

“Not at all.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

And she was right. He would.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any Criminal Minds' characters :) Also, this story will have mentions of the loss of a loved one, and descriptions of violent crimes in a similar fashion to the show. If you're uncomfortable with that, please proceed with caution! individual chapters will have more specific trigger warnings!!! (rating will change once we reach these more explicit chapters)


	2. prologue

**PROLOGUE**

He’s been here before.

Even with the distance between them, he can see the terrified breaths that shake her rib cage with each exhale. He can see the fear in her eyes as the man grips her even tighter, sure to leave bruises across her shoulders where his arm presses her into his chest. There’s a million and one words he wants to scream out to her all at once. He wants to tell her it’ll be fine, that he’s going to save her. In a few hours, they’ll be back in her apartment as if nothing ever happened. He doesn’t though, because it’s naive. He should know better.

He’s been here before.

For a brief moment, he’s blinded by the glint of the gun against her temple. He’s no longer in the abandoned school’s music room, but instead in a warehouse. He can practically feel the silky blindfold over his eyes again, the way it brushes his forehead when it’s taken off. And she’s sitting there, terrified, eyes filled with tears because they both know how this ends. His ears are ringing again with the sound of a gunshot and his stomach churns with the sight of the blood spilling across concrete. _He never even got to hold her_. No amount of sweet talking saved her, no amount of honey-covered lies would change their outcome. He couldn’t save her. He was too late. It was his fault.

He’s been here before.

He hears a soft whimper, and suddenly the smoke clears. He’s back where he needs to be. Maeve is a ghost that is long gone, but the girl in front of him isn’t. It hits him in his gut: he’s not too late. Not yet, at least. Because she’s in front of him, and she’s alive, and he still has time. All he ever wanted was time. The last three months come to rise in the back of his throat as he watches the man sneer, and he watches her mouth an apology through a trembling mouth, and it’s happening all too quickly for him. The gun cocks.

He’s been here before.

_“Wait!”_

He’s been here before.

And the gun shot rings out, no longer just a memory.


	3. war and peace (and splenda)

_chapter 1 - war and peace (and splenda)_

**THREE MONTHS EARLIER**

The migraines were back.

It’s the only thought that crosses Spencer Reid’s mind as he tries to sink deeper into his seat at the busy coffee shop. Between the whistling of the steamers, chatter of the morning commuters, and the way the lights reflect off his open page of _War and Peace_ , he’s convinced his head is going to explode. It’s not an exaggeration: his head was bound to burst right here, on a Tuesday morning, and it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. The more he imagines it, the more he starts to feel unwarranted sympathy for the worker who will inevitable have to clean his mess of a brain up.

He suddenly shakes his heavy head. It’s a brazen thought, but he starts to smile at it nonetheless. It’s better than thinking of _her_ , which he had been successfully avoiding for the past six months. Her and Thomas Merton and the six million, four hundred and fifty seven thousand, twenty-two possible outcomes of what could have been. He’d calculated it. He’d always calculated it.

The reality is, no matter how many calculations he’d made about their future, he never really acknowledged that it could have ended the way that it did. Logically, he knows he should have seen it coming. He’s an FBI agent, and bad things happen. A prime example was Haley and Hotch — that should have served as his warning sign from the universe. But, truthfully, he’s not sure anyone in the BAU had ever known happiness in it’s purest form. The kind of happiness which is unending, uninterrupted as it stretched out before you in a shade of golden your eyes had never seen before, and would likely never see again if it chose to wander out of your sights. And it always did. The golden, fairytale happiness _always_ wandered to leave darkness in its wake.

_How morbid._

After it had first happened, these kinds of thoughts were _all_ Spencer was capable of having. He had been plagued with pessimism and nightmares for the first few months upon losing Maeve. But recently, it had gotten better. Recently, just as he was doing this very moment, he was able to take back his thoughts. He missed her, god, did he miss her terribly, but life could go on. The minutes could turn to hours, the months could turn to years, time could fling itself along recklessly and ambitiously.

And most importantly, he would stop reading the same sentence thirty two times over. Come hell or high water, intruding migraine or not, he refused to carry on this path.

Just the mere mental motivation forced his blurry eyes to finally trail past the sentence. It’s a sigh of relief and wave of comfort, the light at the end of the tunnel that _maybe,_ just maybe, he could keep getting bett-

“ _Oh my God!”_

The shrill voice reaches his ears at the same time his eyes catch sight of the coffee pouring across the table he’s at. He watches it in slow motion, unable to stop it as the words he had been reading blur together and the pages stain brown immediately.

“Oh, _fuck_. Oh, Jesus Christ, I am- I am so, _so_ , _so_ sorry! Oh my God.”

Spencer finally looks up, squinting slightly to see the original owner of the coffee that had practically destroyed his book in mere seconds.

It’s a young woman, probably close to Spencer in age. Her light brown hair is disheveled from the fall, bangs clinging to her forehead as she tries to steady herself once more.

He watches the rapid spread of red not just across her face, but her neck, her hands, _everywhere_. Her embarrassment radiates off of her and is stifling as it mixes with the pounding behind his eyes.

Finally, he snaps out of it as he watches her hopelessly pressing napkins anywhere she can find liquid around the book. They both realize at the same time, though, that the book has taken the most brutal of hits. Most of what was once in her cup has been soaked up by the pages.

“It’s okay,” Spencer finally reassures her as her hesitant and shaking hands continue to mop up the mess.

“ _Okay?_ Your book, it…it’s,” she pauses and their eyes finally meet, “It’s _ruined_.”

“No, it’s okay, I promise,” he persists as he finally stands and starts to gather up some of the wet napkins, tossing them into the trash behind them.

With his back turned to the stranger for a moment, he knows he should be angrier. Any normal person would be furious if their book had been, as she said, ruined. But he wasn’t. Strangely enough, Spencer was almost relieved something had distracted him from his thoughts he was beginning to get lost in.

“Are you okay?” He asks as he turns back towards her, holding a handful of fresh napkins.

“Me? Oh, yeah, no, I’m fine! I just- I just tripped, I think? I actually….” She trails off as she begins to look around, clearly trying to find what had tripped her, “I have no clue what I tripped over. Air, I guess. Which I’m sure makes this all that much worse,” she sighs heavily, her shoulders shifting as she faces Spencer again, “I really am sorry. I promise, I can replace the book if you’d like. Just name the price.”

“Like I said, it’s okay.”

“No, no. I _insist_.”

Spencer finds himself smiling at the sincerity, the genuine guilt. It’s refreshing to see humanity, “It’s a kind offer, but it’s _truly_ okay. It was just an accident, right? It’s just some book, anyways.”

That was a lie. It was one of his favorite books. One of his prized first editions of _War and Peace_ , in the original Russian language. It was a prioritized item in his go bag.

Why wasn’t he angry? Or just a little bit more upset with this stranger?

“Just some book? That book has to be 2,000 pages-“

“1,225, actually.”

She looks up at him, clearly having calmed down from the previous catastrophe. For a moment, he almost forgets about his terrible migraine. He almost forgets that she ruined his book. _Almost_.

“What book is it?” He watches her curiosity clearly get the better of her before she rushes to add, “if you don’t mind me asking, of course!”

“I don’t mind. It’s _War and Peace,_ written by Leo Tolstoy,” he explains, feeling his migraine start to fade. But it still hurts to look anywhere but her face, all freckles and soft edges to contrast the awful, bright lights above them. Her cheeks are still flushed with embarrassment.

She notices him looking. He’s sure his cheeks start to blush and match hers, as if he’s been caught in a trivial crime. He’s beginning to question why he’s even entertaining any sort of conversation with some stranger who had just wrecked complete _havoc_ on his morning when his phone interrupts them, a perfectly timed inconvenience.

He winces as he pulls it out of his pocket, the tone briefly worsening the faint pain in his head. There’s a message from Garcia, informing him of a new case.

“I have to get going, but it was nice meeting you,” he announces as he shoves the phone back into his pocket to look back up at his curious stranger.

Being a profiler came in handy in moments like these. For a moment, she’s processing his words. Her lips are slightly agape and her eyebrows are furrowed in contemplation. He traces all the confusion she’s experiencing from the lines on her forehead to the way her eyelashes are fluttering as her rate of blinking increases. He tries to anticipate her next move only to come up empty handed at the last possible moment. It’s unexpected, the way everything suddenly smooths out in a brief second.

And then she laughs, the kind of laugh someone could never hold back, the kind of laugh that warms Spencer once the surprise wears away.

“Did you just say it was _nice_ to meet me?” She questions as he turns, grabbing the ruined book and wiping down the sticky cover. He takes a dangerous gamble, deciding to shove it into his bag despite the impending doom of it getting _everything_ sticky and smelling like coffee.

“Yeah,” he replies over his shoulder, picking up his cup of his own coffee next, wiping the bottom of it off and the ring of liquid that had formed where it sat on the table.

“There’s got to be nicer ways of ‘meeting’ someone,” she’s laughing again, holding up air quotations as she says meeting.

"I'm sure there is," he shrugs, looking at her finally.

"At least let me buy you a coffee to make up for it. Seriously.”

"I really do have to go.”

"Can I at least know your name?”

Her question catches him off guard, and yet he only has to consider it a moment for deciding there really wasn't any harm in telling her, “Spencer."

Her lips spread into a smile, the gut-wrenching-and-eyes-full-of-possibility kind of smile. She's letting his name hang in the air between them as if it's the opening word to the first chapter of new beginnings.

And that _terrifies_ him.

Her sudden optimism smothers him all the same, just as her embarrassment and guilt had, so just as he watches her begin to offer her own name, he interrupts, "Have a good day!”

She's got a look of confusion again, mouth opening and closing with what words she had been prepared to say seconds before. He moves around her, starting for the door just as she gathers her thoughts and finally calls out, "Wait! I owe you a book!”

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he shakes his head at her persistence, rushing out the door.

Once the fresh air hits him, he only has three observations on his mind.

1, he's no longer thinking of Maeve. Even thinking about the fact that he's not thinking about her doesn't trick him into thinking about her.

2, he truly isn't mad, or even irritated, which is less of an observation and more of a questioning statement given the events that just took place.

And 3, his migraine is gone. Vanished. Not even a lingering throbbing, no sign of it ever having invaded his mind and head with stabbing pains.

He starts his walk, telling himself to be more grateful than question what had magically cured him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay since ao3 likes to name each chapter "chapter 1, 2, 3" and so on automatically, I'm going to wholeheartedly ignore that and number chapters at the top :-) This is chapter one, not chapter 3 (or whatever it's labelled as in the index).


	4. "yes, i am a genius."

_chapter 2 - “yes, i am a genius”_

Everyone has a comfort smell. For some, the smell of chlorine and oranges will send them back to the summers of their youth and the invincible feeling that comes with being 8 years old. For others, cinnamon and vanilla reminds them of their mother’s baking during the holidays and the way Christmas lights mimic stars on Earth. It varies from person to person, certain smells and certain memories mingling somewhere in everyone’s hippocampus.

Sophia Briar’s was the smell of old bookstores.

Her father had been a scholar, dragging her along every Sunday to the bookstore a few blocks away from their home. Back then, in her youth, it had annoyed her. She’d complain for hours about how boring it was, how all the books were _too_ long, how she wanted to return home to play with her friends. Her father would always silence her by handing her a book sure to hold her interest, gently reminding her that if she returned home now, she’d just be stuck in another piano lesson with her mother.

Back then, she’d hated piano lessons just as ironically.

Now, as she stood in the center of a quaint bookstore she’d been recommended by the kind barista who had served her that morning, she let herself enjoy the solitude. The quiet that once drove her insane as a child was calming, and she didn’t dramatically sneeze at the smell of turning pages, mistaking it for dust.

“Can I help you?” A voice questions gently from the end of the aisle she was in. She realizes must have been standing there for quite some time, the book she was staring at the cover of now heavy in her hands.

“No, I’m good. Thank you, though,” she assures the elderly woman with a tight-lipped smile.

Without another word, the woman walks away, pushing a cart of books with her.

Sophia’s eyes trace the cover of the book she’s holding once more, turning it and reading the golden lettering that fills the space of the leather bound spine.

_War and Peace_.

It had been a _week_ since the awful interaction. She could feel the embarrassment just as clearly as when it happened, still a fresh wound. After ruining the man’s book, _Spencer’s_ book, she’d wanted nothing more than to cave into herself and disappear, preventing her from ever embarrassing herself in that way again, _ever_.

Regardless, it hadn’t stopped her curiosity from getting the best of her when she had entered the shop, abandoning her search for the original sheet music she’d come to find and instead wandering the shelves until she’d found the book. Or more aptly put, the _books_. Plural. It had immediately doubled her guilt. He had repeatedly brushed off her offers of replacing the book, claiming it was fine, but now she wishes she hadn’t taken ‘no’ for an answer. These books, in all their glory, just carried an air of importance. There was a weight in them she knew read as expensive as she held the first volume still.

She almost returns the book to the shelf, hand wavering as she held it up to the empty space it had left amongst the other books, when she suddenly decides against it.

Immediately, she pulls the book back to her body, clutching an arm around it and turning to exit the aisle finally. She has no doubt that she absolutely could _not_ afford the other two volumes, but decides there’s no harm in buying the first volume and seeing if she enjoys it. If she didn’t, no harm, no foul. She’d simply go to a bookstore that bought used books just a few miles out of the way, and sell it back to them.

If she didn’t like it, she’d simply erase any and all memory of her interaction with Spencer and the way she’d ruined his very fancy book. He’d probably already forgotten just as well, he’d probably already replaced his book.

She’s just made it to the end of the aisle when she hears a voice, however. She recognizes it almost _too_ quickly.

_Very funny, Universe._

“What do you mean you can’t sell me _just_ the first volume?”

“We only sell that edition in full sets, sir.”

“I’ll pay extra. _Please_.”

The second voice was clearly the woman who had checked on Sophia minutes before. That first voice, however, the one pleading for a very specific book, sounded _exactly_ like the man from the coffee shop.

_Spencer_.

Sophia knew her memory wasn’t the best, though, so she continues around the corner to catch sight of the front counter, convincing herself she’s remembering wrong. She sees the lady, looking at the computer through wired-frame reading glasses with squinting eyes and shaking her head.

“Sir, I really am sorry. We can’t. It’s an extremely valuable and rare set-“

“I know, which is why I’m willing to pay well,” the man arguing with the woman groans, turning barely away from her and rubbing his hands over his face.

_Shit. It’s him._

She wasn’t hallucinating, or projecting, or anything of the likes. It’s the guy. It’s Spencer. Spencer from the coffee shop.

“Why do you need the first volume only _so_ badly? Most people want the entire set,” the woman points out, typing something into the computer that was surely not going to be useful in their situation.

“Like I said, something happened to my first volume. I own the whole set but something has happened _only_ to th-“

The woman interrupts him, and Sophia is offended _for_ Spencer, “You know, most people keep book sets like these in glass cases, locked away for safe keeping.”

The tension was very clearly building in Spencer’s shoulders, frustration obvious. “I’m aware.”

“These sets are most valuable for us when we have the complete collection.”

“I understand that.”

“I can’t sell you the singular volume, sir. I’m sorry.”

Sophia can see Spencer taking a large breath, clearly about to continue the argument, when he suddenly decides against it. Something clearly clicks in his head, and just as soon as he had been adamant on getting the book, he’s walking away. Sophia barely registers his mumble of “have a good day” before reacting.

She presses into the bookshelf behind her, flipping the book in her arm open immediately to the title page. Part of her knows she’s not pressed far enough out of the way, part of her _predicts_ exactly what is about to happen as she shoves her nose deep into the book.

She can _just_ barely see him turn away from the counter over the brim of the novel. She focuses in on the name _Leo Tolstoy_. It’s not going to happen. Now, she was truly being delusional. She was clearly going to look like a stalker. She couldn’t even see him over the brim anymore, his figure disappearing as if it had never even been there to begin with. Honestly, maybe she _had_ imagined it all-

And then it happens. With a soft _oomph!_ , his shoulder collides with hers.

“I’m so-“

He starts an apology when she immediately looks up, and their eyes meet, recognition flaring up like smoke signals. It’s as obvious on his face as she is sure it is on hers; he remembers last Tuesday.

“Sorry.” He finishes, awkwardly delayed.

She smiles and shakes her head, immediately closing the book and tucking it back into her arm, “It’s fine. Eye for an eye, I guess, right?”

_Smooth._ **_Real_ ** _smooth, Sophia._

“What?”

_Fuck._

Her mouth falls open immediately as the worst case scenario is playing out in front of her. _Oh god, oh fuck._ She’d never considered it: he doesn’t remember. She’s an idiot. He doesn’t recognize her.

“I- I just…I meant like,” she pauses to prevent any further stuttering. It’s hopeless, she begins to realize as she finally settles on trying to save herself from further embarrassment, “Nothing. I’m sorry, it was definitely my fault. I’m just kind of a clutz, you know? Sorry.”

She knows she over-apologizing when he smiles at her, that awful smile from a stranger that’s taken pity on you, and says, “Definitely not your fault, so no need to apologize.”

_He really doesn’t recognize me, does he?_

Sophia realizes she needs to swallow her pride and walk away. It’s okay, it’s not the end of the world. She had just gotten carried away in a daydream of circumstance. He was just some cute stranger who she unfortunately would forever remember the name of, cursed to think of now _two_ awkward encounters with when she laid down at night. It’s fine. It’s _fine_.

“Right,” she smiles tightly. It’s almost painful, “Have a nice day, Spencer.”

It’s too late when she realizes her mistake. His name had slipped between her lips with such casual ease, she almost didn’t catch her evident downfall. But then, she watches him, _Spencer_ , her cute stranger she’d embarrassed herself in front of far too many times now. And his eyebrows furrow, startle clear on his expression as he processes what she’s just said to him.

Her entire body tenses when he opens his mouth, she braces for impact, the inevitable “how the hell did you know my name?”. It’d be insufferable, but she promised herself in that mere second she could survive one last disaster with this stranger.

The impact never comes. Instead, he says, “You remember?”

It’s the cliche breath she never realized she was holding that she laughs out. “How could I forget? _You_ remember?”

He’s smiling, no pity evident now. “I do. I was actually here to replace the book that….well, you know,” he trails off, smile softening but not fully leaving his face as his eyes fall to the book in her arms, “And I see I’m not the only one looking for it?”

When he glances back up to her, she knows she’s already blushing. Her crimson cheeks betray her as she tries to shrug it off, “I came here for something else, and it caught me eye.”

He doesn’t respond, instead simply humming with a glint in his eyes.

“Oh!” She exclaims, making them both jump, “I just realized I know your name, but you don’t know mine. I’m Sophia,” she tries to introduce herself as warmly as you can during a second impression. She’s about to readjust how she’s holding her book and stick out a hand, but just as she begins to move she watches Spencer’s hands immediately retract to his pockets.

The message comes clear to her: no handshakes. Got it.

For a moment, Sophia is nervous she did something to upset him. But despite the closed off body language, his eyes say otherwise. He’s looking at her like he’s memorizing her. She wants to shift under his watchful eyes, but she’s scared that if she does, the image he’s imprinting to memory will distort.

“Nice to meet you, Sophia.”

“ _Yes,_ it is nice to meet me this time. Much nicer than, let’s say, a hypothetical situation in which I clumsily spill my coffee all over your expensive book and completely ruin it, and quite possibly your entire morning,” she can’t help herself, replying like the smart-ass she is.

He can take it though, clear as he responds with a chuckle, “Yes, yes. Completely hypothetical, of course.”

“You know, speaking of hypotheticals, I owe you a book.”

“And how exactly do those connect?”

“They just do,” she waves him off, holding up the copy of _War and Peace_ she was holding, “Which volume of yours did I demolish?”

“None, since we both just agreed it was a hypothetical situati-“

“I’ll just replace the entire collection, then.”

“ _No_ ,” Spencer scolds as she’s turning, preparing to make her way back to the aisle she had began in when he blocks her way, “Trust me. I don’t expect you to replace the book.”

“Why? Is it because it was a special edition or something?” She blurts out, hoping her sudden question doesn’t expose her _accidental_ eavesdropping. His silence is all the answer she needs. “Oh my god! How expensive of a book did I ruin? What, was it like a million dollars?”

“What? No, it wasn’t a million dollars!” He insists in an attempt to calm her down, and while she appreciates the way he seems to genuinely want to keep her from exploding, it’s unnecessary. In fact, it’s already too late.

“Half a million?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to _me_!”

She’s sure that they’re attracting looks from other patrons in the bookstore, but she doesn’t mind or take notice. He has an awful, wonderful, tunnel-vision affect on her. It’s just her, him, and the whirlwind of their banter that she’s only being _half_ serious about.

“Okay, okay,” his hands shoot up out of his pockets and into the air, signaling surrender, “I don’t have an exact price, necessarily. It’s sold in a set. They won’t sell it individually.”

“And how much is this set?” She asks, pretending as if the news of it only being sold in a set is new information to her. 

He pauses. His eyes flicker about the room to avoid her gaze, but at some point, he accepts his fate. Her eyes capture his, and she swears she feels a small _click_ in the Universe. She decides it was nothing.

“Thirty thousand.”

“Thirt-Thirty _thousand_?” She squeaks, her volume dropping in contrast to the way her voice breaks. She knew that with great importance came great price tags, but _Jesus christ,_ “You’re telling me that book was worth ten thousand dollars! I ruined a ten thousand dollar book with a three dollar coffee?”

“No, because I still insist you did _not_ ruin the book. It was an accident! No hard feelings, okay?” Spencer’s face is scrunched up as he says this, eyes squinting in the slightest as he watches how Sophia processes this all. She can see that he’s wishing he had lied, and part of her wishes it, too.

She’s quiet for a moment. And then she looks down at the book in her hand. They both understand what it about to happen without a single word exchanged, and so at the same time speak up.

“Let me buy this version for you!”

“ _No_!”

They both seem taken back by their voice filling the space in sync, but Y/N still doesn’t miss a beat. “Look, I’m a very stubborn person.”

“I’ve gathered as much,” Spencer laughs, looking her up and down.

Her stance reveals to him just _how_ determined she is to buy this book for him. She has a knee cocked, with her arms now crossed as the book dangles carefully from her left hand. She’s shorter than him but it doesn’t stop her from glaring up at him, pupils blown with a specific breed of stubborn Spencer isn’t sure he’s _ever_ encountered.

“You’re not leaving this shop without me buying this book for you, okay? I’m sorry, it’s just not happening,” she sighs, relaxing her stance slightly, lowering her defenses little by little, “Please? It’ll help _me_ sleep better at night. Don’t think of this as an act of kindness, this is purely _selfish_. Let me be selfish and do this for me, I’m the one who needs a guilt-free conscious.”

By the end of her final attempt at persuasion, she’s lowered her defenses completely. Her arms are slack at her sides, her chest once held with pride now sunken in as her posture slacks. She’s moved on from an intense, threatening glare to what Spencer believes to be her attempt at puppy dog eyes. Big green eyes, lashes fluttering. Hell, she even subtly pouts her lip for dramatic effect.

And it _works_.

“Fine, on one condition, though,” he caves.

“Yes! Of course, anything,” she jumps at his acceptance almost _too_ eagerly.

“If you buy me the book, I buy you a coffee.” He explains, searching her face for any dead giveaways at her answer. She stays stoic however as she contemplates, purposefully as she’s noticed the way he watches her, _reads_ her. He’s smart enough to know he hasn’t fully convinced her, so he decides to finally weaponize her own words from the beginning of this hurricane of an interaction, “Eye for an eye, right?”

She sighs at this. He’s won her over. With a defeated nod, she echoes the words back to him, “Eye for an eye.”

“Great. In that case, would right now be a good time for the coffee?” Spencer asks, lighting up.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“Great!” He turns from her slightly, taking a few steps towards the counter, “I know this really good coffee shop that’s a five minute walk from here.”

“Wait!” She calls out before he takes a second step away from her, “there’s one other thing I need from here first.” 

—————————————————

Spencer had been right; the walk took the two of them exactly five minutes and seventeen seconds.

In that time, Sophia had learned a few things. First of all, Spencer was out of his element. It was clear in the way his right hand nervously swung the bag from the bookstore between them, making the copy of _War and Peace_ shift constantly against the vinyl booklet of sheet music that Sophia had originally gone to the store for. But his free hand, his left hand that hung farthest from Sophia, fidgeted as if he’d just grown it that morning, unsure of what hands were supposed to do and where hands were supposed to go. She found it cute, honestly.

And then there was the way the silence between them feels every time the conversation died down.

All the movies were wrong; _this_ was not effortless. Sure, there were times in the past hour where the two of them had clearly hit a sweet spot for banter, conversation over-pouring between them. But during their walk, they had fallen silent exactly two times, and each time, Sophia was reminded of the effort things like this take. It was neither good nor bad. Just a simple reminder that stretched out and tried to fill the air left between her and Spencer, mixing with sparse car horns and passing conversations between the other strangers on the street.

“So, you play piano?” Spencer asks her as he takes a few deliberately long steps, reaching the door to the coffee shop before she could in order to open it for her.

She nods gratefully turning her head over her shoulder as she enters and he follows behind her. “Yeah! Yeah, I do.”

Spencer can see the pride hidden beneath her surface as he returns to her side. It reminds him of all the times he’s ever wanted to talk about something he was passionate about, the way he could get carried away in his own rambles. Decidedly, he considers the way he’d love to get carried away in _her_ rambles.

They trail along to the back of the short line as he asks, “For how long?”

“I’ve been playing for about… twenty-two years now? I started taking lessons when I was six,” she’s beaming. She _knows_ she’s beaming as she tries to play it cool, letting her eyes wander across the menu board ahead of them rather than face Spencer.

It’s _embarrassing._ Her mother used to chastise her for her meek approach to the topic despite her passion, but she couldn’t help it.

Sophia focuses in on deciding what kind of coffee she’ll be ordering as the line moves up, them being next, as Spencer’s brain processes the information she’s just given him.

“So you’re twenty-eight?” Is the only thing he can think to blurt out.

“Yes,” she laughs nervously, eyes finally glancing at him with her eyebrows perched, “Please, if you’re an eighteen year old freshmen, wait to enlighten me until _after_ I finish my coffee without feeling ancient.”

She tries to drench her words in as much light-hearted sarcasm as possible. She knows that he isn’t an eighteen year old freshmen. Just as with the books, he carries an air of importance that an eighteen year old could rarely hold.

“If anyone is to feel ancient, it’s definitely me,” his words strike worry within her. _Oh god, just how old is he?_ He doesn’t leave her hanging onto the thought as he continues, “I’m thirty-two. Don’t worry.”

“Too late, you had me thinking you were just a fifty year old with an excellent skin care routine,” she jokes just as they get called to the counter to order.

He orders a black coffee, asking them to leave about an inch on top as room for cream and sugar. Both the barista and Sophia shoot him a strange look, but neither say a thing as it’s rung up.

Sophia orders a vanilla latte. She knows it’s simple, and boring, and probably the safest option she could have gone with. That’s the point.

They walk in sync once Spencer pays, heading to stand in front of the small window where names were called to pick up their orders. They almost fall back into one of their silences, when Sophia decides against it.

“So, you now know I play piano, what’s an interesting fact about _you_?”

Spencer clearly isn’t expecting the question, eyes widening a micro-amount. “What?”

“What’s your piano?” She smiles as she asks it, meeting his gaze, filled to the brim with curiosity.

“Well I… I don’t really play any instruments.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she laughs softly, “What’s something you’re passionate about?”

“Oh! Honestly? I’m a man of science. I also really love books, which I’m sure you had already guessed.”

She thinks of the thirty-thousand dollar set of books. “Actually, I was swinging more towards the line of thought that maybe you were just _really_ reckless with money,” she teases, and they both smile so wide she wishes she could take a picture of this exact moment, “Do you have a specific science or…just general?”

It’s his turn to laugh, ready to tease her when it’s called out that their orders are ready.

With coffees in hand, they migrate to a table, sitting across from each other as Spencer decides to spare her of teasing and give a genuine answer now that they’re facing each other dead-on. “General science is always good, but I have a PhD in chemistry.”

She’s about to casually answer when the word _PhD_ hits her. “Hold on, you have a _PhD_?”

“Three, actually.”

“ _Three_ PhDs?” Her voice is squeaky, just as it had gone in the bookstore when he revealed the price of the book. “In _what_?”

“Well, there’s the one in chemistry, and then mathematics and engineering.”

_Holy shit_.

The air of importance he carries suddenly makes complete sense. “You _must_ work as some insane and highly reputable scientist. Or, a prestige professor. Or just a rocket scientist. Please, let me know when I’ve guessed correctly. I can go all day.”

He’s shaking his head, laughing at her so gently it makes her teeth ache. He takes a moment to take off the lid of his coffee and grab the sugar on the table, beginning to pour it in.

_Oh, that’s what the inch is for._

“None of the above, actually. I highly doubt you’ll guess my job based on my degrees though. Or at least, my doctorates. My bachelors are more fitting for the field,” he says it so casually as he stirs his coffee, it leaves her speechless for a good minute.

“Bachelors. Plural.”

“Yes, plural.”

“What are you, a super-genius?”

They both still, staring right at each other. Her shock is evident on her face along with just how impressed she is. His pride, subtle cockiness, is evident on his. Several beats of time pass between them without a single word spoken. Finally, Spencer ends the stare down with one word.

“Yes.”

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, I am a genius.”

She looks baffled, and it makes him laugh a little. It’s not in any way the kind of baffled in which she can’t believe that he’s a genius. He can’t explain it, but her shock almost seemingly shows she believes him instantly.

“Prove it,” she insists, suddenly leaning back in her seat as she holds her latte to her lips.

“Prove it? How?”

“I don’t know, you’re the genius. You have to figure that one out,” she says it with a shrug, watching it be _his_ turn to be baffled at her request.

However, he seems to figure out how he intends to prove it fairly quickly.

“I have an IQ of one hundred and eighty-seven, I can read twenty-thousand words a minute, and… I have an eidetic memory.”

Sophia watches the blush spread across his cheeks, a clear indicator he’s not used to bragging like this.

She dramatically pretends to ponder for a moment to keep him on edge, before finally replying, “Okay. Yeah. You are a genius. So what kind of job does a genius work at?”

“You said you could, and I quote, ‘go all day’,” he uses air quotations as he says this before picking his coffee up, casually drinking it as he lets her figure out what he means.

“What, guessing? You’re really going to make me guess?” Sophia all but whines as it hits her what he’s hinting towards.

“I am,” he smugly says.

There’s a few critical moments in the beginning of every relationship, platonic and romantic alike, that set the pavement for the rest of the duration. Sophia realizes this as she’s looking at Spencer, and he’s settling into a certain confidence he had lacked when he first bumped into her in the bookstore. She remembers the _click_ of the Universe earlier, when Spencer had first indulged her in the banter about the price of his book. And here, now, she sees the opportunity for another monumental moment, another seemingly innocent _click_ that might just buy her more time with the captivating man.

“Game on, doctor,” she indulges him, leaning forward on the table to lessen the space between them, “I bet I can guess what your job is within the next three months.”

She swears he’s heard the _click_ too, almost like pieces of a puzzle falling right into place. He mirrors her, leaning against the table as well. She’s suddenly away of the static between their fingertips that _almost_ brush, the closest she’s gotten to physical touch with him.

“Why three months?”

_So I know I’ll have that long with you, at the very least._

“One for each doctorate, of course.”

It’s as if he’s magnetic, drawing her in closer with every breath as she awaits for him to accept her own bait.

“Game on.”

She’s about to rebuttal her own quick-witted response when they both hear the chime of his phone. Instantaneously, the spell they had over one another is broken. They’re both leaning back, waves of deja vu overwhelming them as the same scenario from last Tuesday plays out.

“It’s your work, isn’t it?” She tries desperately to void her voice of all disappointment, but it’s hard. She can’t _help_ but feel sad at the reminder that this moment has to end, that they can’t stay here forever. She even feels a bit silly for feeling that way considering she’d only properly met Spencer mere hours before.

“They can wait,” he insists as another tone fills the air. She watches him fold his hands together in an attempt to avoid grabbing his phone from his pocket. Part of her wants to appreciate it, but a much bigger part knows whatever his work is, it has to be important. The kind of important that can’t wait. 

“Can they?”

“You still haven’t guessed what I do correctly, so hypothetically, depending on my job, they absolutely can.”

“Something tells me your job isn’t the patient kind,” she softly mumbles as finally, the short bursts of tones stop and instead a much longer ringtone starts up.

“I’m-“

“Don’t you dare apologize.”

He snaps his mouth shut into a sad smile as he pulls the phone out finally, answering with slight irritation, “Hello?”

Sophia decides to tune out his conversation as he turns his body away from her in the very slightest.

Instead, she busies herself by quietly slipping the book she had bought him out of the plastic bag. She lets her eyes flicker up to him, guaranteeing he’s still distracted as her hand blindly rummages her small purse for the pen she always keeps on her. Once she finds it, she pulls off the cap and flips open the book as quickly as she possibly can and scribbles onto the title page. Her handwriting comes out messy, smearing slightly as her left hand grazes the page. It’s a rushed job, but by the time Spencer is saying his goodbyes and turning back to her with a pout, she’s already returned the book to his side of the table and stowed the pen back away.

“You have to go, don’t you?” She questions, heart pinging at the sad look on his face.

“I really am sorry.”

“No harm, no foul. I should probably get going as well.”

She takes note of the fall of his face, as if growing any sadder was possible. It’s reassuring to know that he’s as reluctant to let their time together go as she is.

As if pulling off a bandaid, she quickly grabs up the bag holding her sheet music before standing and tossing her empty coffee cup. Spencer follows suit immediately.

“Wait, Sophia, could I…” he trails off as she faces him, raising her eyebrows, “Well, is there anyway I could- I, could I get your number?”

She smiles widely, cheeks ready to burst. “Check the book, genius.”

Without another word, she turns on her heel and walks out of the coffee shop, forcing herself to keep staring forward and to not look back. As she walks back out to the empty street, she hears it again — the _click_.

The _click_ in the Universe letting her know she’s made the right decision.


	5. the scientific method

_chapter 3 - the scientific method_

For the next fourteen hours and seventeen minutes, Spencer Reid is the most useless member of the BAU that he has ever been. 

He tries to focus, he really does, but fails — _miserably_. It starts at the round table, his mind wandering to thoughts of Sophia’s kind, brown eyes and fiery persistence. The memory distracts him mercilessly. It’s as if he’s sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool miles from Quantico, everyone’s voices echoing in a hollow fashion as his eyes flicker away from the morbid pictures of crime scenes and focus in on the book placed carefully beside his case-file. It’s a sweet relief amongst the melancholy of the case he catches pieces of. 

By the time the team is situated on the jet, taking off for a city just mere hours away, he’s gathered the case involves children. There’s a heaviness in the air that always comes with cases like that. Even if they catch the killer in a timely manner, children have still been hurt. And because of that, they all have that pit in their stomachs, the gut feeling as if a case is going to end badly. The feeling the hero gets in the movie when they know the villain gets to win this time. 

It’s an awful feeling, one that makes Spencer’s knuckles ache as he holds back from reaching into his bag and grabbing the book, flipping open the leather-bound cover to Sophia’s messy scrawl once more. 

At the local police station, he’s grateful as Hotch assigns him to do his usual geographical profile, body working on autopilot as he works his way through case files and cups of coffee. But still, he remains far enough away it catches even Morgan’s attention. 

“Is everything okay, kid?” 

Spencer’s caught off guard. One hand was propping up his head, rubbing soothing circles into his left temple, but the other one was clutching onto the case report with a death grip. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” 

“You just seem like you’re somewhere else right now.” 

_He was._

“It’s nothing, I promise. I do think I found something here, though.” 

And with that, the conversation is dropped. The case takes its usual twists and turns, and in the end, the unsub is caught before any more damage is done. 

It’s only on the flight home, once he believes everyone else is dead asleep, that Spencer Reid pulls out his new copy of _War and Peace_ , flipping the crisp pages yet to be broken in until he lands on the title page. 

The words “ _call me, Doctor.”_ are written in handwriting that can be _almost_ described as cursive, a neater set of numbers below them, slightly more legible. With a deep breath, Spencer pulls out his phone and decides to go against the suggestion, opening a new text to the number instead in the hope of salvaging some privacy even if everyone seems to be in deep slumbers. 

**SPENCER:** Hi, is this Sophia? 

He presses send before he can think too deeply into the contents of the message. He’s always hated texting. It’s not that Spencer hates technology, he’s just _old-fashioned_ , as everyone around him likes to say. 

**SOPHIA:** That depends.

 **SOPHIA:** Is this certified genius Spencer? Because if not, this is going to be very awkward. 

He laughs softly as the messages chime in back to back.

 **SPENCER:** Does this mean giving away your number is a regular thing? 

Pausing after hitting ‘send’, Spencer quickly attempts to type a second text. He’s not nearly as fast as Sophia is, though, as the small ‘typing’ bubble pops up on her end just as he starts his second reply. They both pause, her bubble disappearing before Spencer continues as fast as he can, aware of the pressure on now that she’s clearly watching the chat to some extent. 

**SPENCER:** (This is in fact Spencer, by the way.)

Spencer hears brief shuffling on the other side of the jet, and his head shoots up to see JJ standing up before walking his way. He considers pretending to be asleep, but she’s already caught his eye and smiled softly in his direction by the time the consideration comes to mind. 

“You all good, Spence?” she questions as she reaches where he’s seated, separated from the rest of the team.

“Oh, yeah, fine. Just can’t sleep.”

“Same here. Is anyone in the bathroom?” 

Spencer shakes his head, and JJ moves along to the door that’s just behind him. He finally looks back down at his open phone to a new message from Sophia. 

**SOPHIA:** Unimportant. Why’d you take so long to text? 

**SPENCER:** I do have a very important job, if you remember.

 **SOPHIA:** Vaguely. It’s just been so long, the memory is hazy.

Spencer starts to type “Sorry, I’ll tell serial killers to take a day off next time” when he remembers the ongoing bet between the two of them. He quickly backspaces, settling on a less-than-witty answer comparably. 

**SPENCER:** I really am sorry about taking so long to reach out. But when duty calls…

“Who are you texting?” Spencer jumps as JJ’s voice comes from over his shoulder, reflexively slamming his phone face-down against his thigh, “Hey, okay _jumpy_. Sorry, didn’t realize it was such sensitive information. Everything okay?” 

He laughs, relaxing back into his seat as JJ sits across from him, “Oh, no, you’re fine! It was just a...friend.” 

He can see her profiling his words, especially the pause before friend, but he wasn’t sure _what_ to call Sophia right now. 

“A friend, huh?”

“Why do you say that like it’s a crime?” Spencer all but whines as JJ smiles slyly. 

“It’s not! No, it’s great, Spence. You’re just not the social type, I guess. It’s odd to hear you have a friend outside of the BAU,” JJ suddenly leans forward taking a quick glance around the jet before facing him again, her teasing look locked and loaded, “ _Unless_ it _is_ someone in the BAU? Who are you whispering with?” 

Spencer can only smile and shake his head. “Not funny, and not whispering. It isn’t anyone you know.” 

“What’s her name?”

“What if it’s _his_ name?” 

“Okay, what’s his name?” 

“I’m not telling you her name.”

“So it is a girl!” JJ leans back, clearly proud of herself as Spencer grows more and more flustered. 

“Yes, a girl who is a _friend_. Please, don’t tell the others, especially Gar-” Spencer is interrupted by his phone buzzing against his thigh, quickly turning it over to see his notification. 

It’s another text from Sophia.

“Is that her?” JJ questions, nodding at his phone while he takes his hand to shoo her away as he tries to focus on the text. 

**SOPHIA:** Hey, no need for apologies! I’m just joking around. How did work go? (or is currently going?...)

Spencer’s smile doesn’t go unnoticed by JJ, “You better give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let everyone know about this _friend_ who’s making you smile like _that_.” 

“Like what?” he exclaims defensively. 

“Like she’s _more_ than just a friend.”

“She really is just a friend, _Jennifer_ . I’ve only known her a few days,” Spencer sighs, knowing she’s not going to drop the topic, “Look, I promise if it goes any further, _I’ll_ tell everyone about it, especially Garcia. But for now...just, please don’t?” 

“Fine, you win this time,” JJ slides out of her temporary seat, poking her fingers towards her eyes and then in his direction in an _I’m-watching-you_ motion before turning to go back to her original seat. 

The moment she’s left, Spencer sighs in relief and refocuses his attention back on his phone. 

**SPENCER:** It’s going okay. How’s your day been?

Maybe he could get better at this texting thing. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The jet lands safely, albeit roughly. Spencer spent the rest of the flight chatting back and forth with Sophia, learning how she’s been practicing the sheet music she had bought at the bookstore. He realizes how awfully unbalanced the conversation is, mainly due to the silly bet. He _couldn’t_ tell her about the case, or even hint at the stress he’d felt, and he wondered if she’d caught on to that wall in their conversation as well. He’s almost convinced she has when she asks if he could just call and chat, claiming she was too tired to keep typing out such boring recounts. 

Spencer rushes home at the prospect, barely giving Hotch a chance to dismiss them all, but giving JJ plenty of time to send him a knowing look. 

He couldn’t explain why he was so excited to talk to someone he’d properly known less than twenty-four hours. Part of him considered it being the nostalgia of the days he spent on the phone with Maeve. The other part of him killed the thought before it had room to grow, refusing to let her ghost taint his night. 

**SPENCER:** I just got home, so if you’re still up to calling, I’m available.

_Why was he so nervous?_

None of the feelings in his chest currently made sense. For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid couldn’t explain away what was happening to him, and he couldn’t understand if that was good or bad. 

He half-expects a text back from her, some sort of warning sign before her phone call popped up on his screen. But his phone instead starts buzzing just as he puts on a fresh pot of coffee. Her name lights up across the top, the accept and decline buttons flashing in front of him. 

He has to take a minute. All the nervous, all the excitement, is rising up in the back of his throat by the time he finally hits _accept._

“H-Hello?” he cringes at his own voice and stutters, thinking about how ridiculous he sounded. 

“Hey, you sound surprised, is it actually a bad time?” her voice is sweet, gently mixing with the most microscopic amount of white noise from the other end. It almost sends chills down his spine, every once-tense muscle caving into themselves as he finally sits down on his couch. 

“No!” he accidentally says far too loudly, sounding far too excited, “I mean, uh, no. I just never got a response back after I sent the text so it was a little...a little unexpected, I guess.” 

He can hear her faint laughter. “Sorry about that. I figured I’d save us some time and skip straight to the good part.”

“Makes sense.”

He’s worried. There’s a beat of quiet between them, and he convinces himself that this is it. All the emotions he's felt in the last hour have been for nothing, he was nervous only for a fizzle. 

Except the beat of quiet is just that - a beat. 

“So, you’re _just_ now getting home from the work that you ran off to yesterday?” he can hear shuffling on her end following the question, and wonders how she’s situated herself. Is she on her own coach? Her bed? Somewhere comfortable? 

At the thought of comfort, Spencer considers moving to his bedroom when he smells his coffee, nearly finished brewing. 

“Yes, I am."

“What kind of job requires undivided attention for….over twenty four hours?” 

“I think that qualifies as cheating for our little guessing game we have going.” 

“You caught me,” more faint laughter, a wave of comfort for Spencer in the oddest of ways, “I suppose I’ll have to play that one fair. That is a pretty good clue for me, though.” 

“It is,” he agrees, pouring a cup of coffee, “Better than you deserve, in my opinion.” 

“Hey! No need to be so cruel, doctor,” she scoffs in rebuttal. 

And just like that, Spencer Reid’s worries of a fizzle disappear. 

An hour goes by faster than the minutes, their conversation flowing with ease. There’s a banter that bounces back and forth and has him smiling so wide his cheeks grow sore. She’s good at this: at story-telling, at having the perfect joke for the moment, at captivating him with just her voice. He’s never been happier to have had one of his most expensive and prized possessions ruined by a stranger’s coffee. Their conversation ranges from the most mundane of topics, like what they had for breakfast or what brand of coffee they prefer to keep at home, but it eventually finds its way to a topic capable of heated debate between them. 

“I actually once had to learn how to play piano for...well, uh, for my job, sort of. It took me about five minutes to learn everything I needed,” Spencer brags, almost tripping up at his own mention of his job. 

They’d fallen into a light-hearted argument about how much time someone should spend practicing piano in order to play professionally. Sophia had begun to recount how her mother used to make her spend upward of five hours at the family piano at a time, playing the same melodies repeatedly, and Spencer had injected that that was ‘completely useless’, even making the claim that it would have been harmful to a child’s joints. 

“Bullshit. You can absolutely _not_ learn piano in five minutes,” Sophia gasps, and the noises on her end makes Spencer believe she’s sat up from whatever comfortable position she was in previously. 

“I did! I mean, sort of. It was just one specific melody but I like to think it still counts.” 

“Nope, it doesn’t. You want to know why it doesn’t?” he can hear her smile through the receiver, and she doesn’t wait for his response to her rhetoric, “Because I just remembered _you’re_ a genius. It doesn’t count. Us average-intelligence people need longer than five minutes to learn an instrument, even if it’s just a single melody or song.” 

“Are you implying you’re dumb?” 

“No! I said _average_!” 

He throws his head back in laughter at the genuine defensiveness in her tone. “I still think even a ‘normal’ person could manage it. I have an entire theory about it, honestly,” he blushes as he realizes he’s just used air quotations despite the fact she can’t see him.

“Alright, let’s hear this theory,” she insists, and he recognizes that voice. The one she used in the bookstore when she was determined to buy a replacement copy of _War and Peace_ . He knew better than to go against her wishes, _this_ time.

“It’s just math essentially. Just about anyone could play if they figure out the equation.” 

She laughs, and it’s music to his ears. “There is no equation, Spencer.”

“Actually, there is, technically spea-”

“I’m not disagreeing that anyone could play if they really want to. But not everyone can perform.”

“Play, perform, isn’t it the same thing?” he shuffles his phone in between his shoulder and ear as he begins to pull some pajamas from his drawers.

“Not at all.”

He decides to humor her, questioning with a smile, “What’s the difference?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

And she was right. He would. 

“You’re a man of science, right?” she asks before he gets the chance to reply to her previous banter, “So you’d believe in stuff like, the scientific method, for example, right?” 

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, but yes. I believe in the scientific method,” Spencer speaks slowly, mind racing as he tries to predict her next move. 

“Alright, and that has...What? Like, six steps?” 

“Seven,” he corrects her, instinctually. 

“Technicalities. Anyways, and please feel free to stop me if I’m wrong, but the first step is to have a question. And we currently have one - Can everyone learn to perform on piano, or simply play?” 

Her vision finally becomes more clear to him, but Spencer _still_ can’t quite figure out where she’s going. “Yes, the next step would be research.” 

“We’ve also already covered that step! Both of us have at the _very_ least learned to _play_ piano. However, I’ve gone a step further, and professionally perform. But you still know how to play, supposedly,” she trails off, leaving a pause for teasing effect. 

“Hey! I really do know how to play!” 

“Right, sure thing, doc. My point is, now we’ve both have our own educated guesses, or whatever they’re called-”

“Hypothesis?”

“Yes, we both have our own hypothesis. That means all that’s left is to put them to the test somehow,” her pride spreads out across the phone line, and he imagines a fairly smug look on her face as she leans back and revels in her elaborate comparison. 

Spencer doesn’t even have the heart to correct her on the fact there’s more beyond just _testing_ the hypothesis. For her sake, he just replies, “So how do we test them?”

“I’ve got a plan in mind. Are you free tomorrow night?”

His heart involuntarily begins to race. “Yeah, I am, why?” 

“Would you allow me to change that, then? In the name of science?” 

“Did you just use the scientific method to create a metaphor that could lead to you asking me out on a date?” he fails at biting back his amusement. 

“Never! It’s not a date, it’s a _science experiment_ ,” she insists.

“Alright, alright. I suppose I could join you for your _science experi-_ ”

She interrupts him without shame, but it doesn’t bother him one bit, “ _Our_ science experiment. And on that note, I’ll text you the time and address tomorrow, because I hate to admit I do need _some_ sleep.” 

Spencer suddenly turns in bed to face his alarm clock. 

_Shit._

He hadn’t even realized the three hours had passed, the clock blinking ‘4:00 AM’ into his darkened room. 

“It’s four in the morning? I...I hadn’t even noticed…” he trails off in shock, trying to figure out how he’d gotten lost into three hours of conversation. How had he not noticed? 

“Me neither,” Sophia’s voice drops to a whisper to match Spencer’s, both of them talking so quietly as if they were now afraid to wake up the rest of the world. 

“I guess in that case then...Yeah, yeah. We should both get some sleep,” Spencer suddenly notices how hoarse his voice had grown. Had it been that way the entire time? 

“Yeah,” Sophia pauses, a few soft breaths over the line before finally saying, “See you tomorrow?” 

Spencer grins into the dark, “See you tomorrow.” 


	6. "goodnight, spencer reid."

_chapter 4 - “goodnight, spencer reid.”_

It’s only when Spencer Reid is thirty minutes late without any texts or phone calls, that Sophia Briar begins to lose hope in him. 

She’d been standing outside of the music hall for forty-five minutes now, having shown up fifteen minutes early without anticipating that her ‘science partner’ would be late for their little _experiment_. 

_He’s not going to show up, I’m an idiot._

Frustration finally taking over, Sophia begins to pat her pockets in search of her phone. She’d been holding off from incessant texting or calling in fear of coming off as clingy, but as the chill of the October air finally reaches the marrow of her bones, she decides _insecurities be damned_. 

She finally feels her phone, hand reaching into the back pocket where it’s kept hidden, when a voice scares her. 

“Hey! I’m so-” Spencer is cut off by a slight yelp from Sophia, jumping and turning around to face him as her phone slips from her grasp, “Oh my God, here, let me grab that.” 

Sophia glares at him as he bends down to pick up the cell phone, smiling up at her sheepishly as he flashes the screen to her and signaling it hasn’t broken before handing it back over. Part of her is still angry, but the rest of her is just cold and embarrassed. 

“You’re late.” 

“I know, I'm sorry. I should have called,” he brushes off the knee of his jeans where he had knelt on the ground. 

“I was starting to think you stood me up. You’re allowed to tell me if you’re busy, you know? Even if I don’t know what _exactly_ your job is, I know all adults have certain obligations. Or can even understand if you just didn’t want to see me-” 

“Definitely wasn’t that,” Spencer interrupts, flashing her a heart-warming smile. She starts to feel bad for her accidental scolding almost immediately. 

She takes a deep breath before continuing, “Sorry, sorry. I think the cold’s just made me cranky.” 

“Completely understandable! It’s actually been found that people’s happiness drops significantly with extreme changes of weather, more commonly with the summer heat but an article I read on it had an entire theory as to why-” Spencer cuts himself off unexpectedly, leaving Sophia to watch him, confused. She’s about to ask what’s wrong when his lips press into a tight-lined smile and he apologizes, “Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” 

“Who cares?” she immediately laughs, genuine shock plastered across her face, “It’s reassuring to know there’s a science to my bitterness. But what’s the theory as to why they complain more with heat?” 

He looks taken back, as if she’s just thrown up a threatening fist. She watches as he deliberates mentally over the span of a few seconds and can’t help but wonder who has cut off his fascinating rambles enough to cause an unwarranted apology like she’d just witnessed. 

Once he’s finished his mental gymnastics, the softest of smiles graces his face as he says, “They just think people get too cold to be able post online about it.” 

“Like we forget to?” 

“No, no. Like physically, you shiver so much you can’t pull out your phone.” 

Sophia stifles a giggle, “You’re kidding.” 

“Not at all. It’s that or we just know we can bundle up to get warm. With heat… there’s only so many layers of clothes socially acceptable to take off,” he finishes as he’s holding back laughter as well, his hands making their way to his pockets. 

“I will...I’ll keep that in mind next time I complain about the weather,” she finally caves to her laughter, cueing Spencer to join in. All her worries and complaints of his lateness have vanished, and she’s reminded why she’d let her thoughts be so invested in a practical stranger the last twenty-four hours. 

He kind of feels like home, in the hopeless-romantic-who’s-read-too-much-Jane-Austen way. When Sophia was once an on-looker to these situations, she’d get stomach aches from the sickening sweetness of it all. Now, she just gets it. 

“So, why exactly have you brought me to this music hall? I don’t think I’ve ever even been on this side of town,” Spencer asks, nodding in the direction of the brick wall beside them. 

“Oh! Right, the science experiment,” she can’t help but smile as she says it, Spencer mirroring her, “I figured we’d need a piano to test our theory.” 

“Hold on - we’re going inside?” 

“No, I was actually just going to play a keyboard on the sidewalk while you bargain for change.” 

“Oh, well in that case…” Spencer trails off and looks in the direction of the street, cars passing by at startling speeds. 

“I’m kidding, Spence,” she lets the nickname fall off her tongue as easy as when she’d slipped up and exposed her knowledge of his name at the bookstore, “Is it okay if I call you Spence?”

Spencer ponders for a moment.

“Yeah! I mean, that’s fine, I already have a coworker who calls me that, so...yeah,” he nervously chuckles. 

She can imagine the look on her face as she stares up at him in wonder, trying to understand how someone could give off such boyish charm, shyness, and an air of importance, all simultaneously. 

She finally remembers to answer as she catches Spencer staring right back at her. “Oh! Well, in that case, I’ll need to come up with a more original nickname.” 

“You can just call me Spencer,” he rocks on his heels in the slightest motion as he blurts this, “Most people call me by my last name anyways, so it’d still be something special.” 

“I’d ask what that is, but something tells me you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“What, my last name?” Spencer chuckles. 

“Yeah, although I’d like to point out I would obviously _never_ just go home and search up your full name on the internet in order to find out your job and win our ongoing bet. _Never_ ,” he loves the teasing tone to her voice, watching her lean into him and his space as she stressed the word ‘ _Never_ ’. 

“I’ll make you a deal, then,” his eyes dart between her and the building behind them, “If you can prove that there’s a difference between playing and performing, I’ll tell you my last name.” 

Sophia can’t help but throw her head back in laughter, “Alright, _Spencer_. You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

She doesn’t have time to think before she’s instinctually thrown her hand out to shake. He’s still processing the way she’s just said his name, paying special attention to each syllable, and just stares at her fingertips and palm that face his way eagerly. 

And then she remembers the bookstore, and how he had kept his hands busy to avoid contact. 

She’s just about to jerk her hand back into her space when he pulls his left hand out of his pocket in a haste, reaching out and grabbing hers before she has a chance to take back the gesture. His palm is warm and clammy, in the grossest and best way possible. She almost lets out a yelp of glee at the feeling of their fingertips meeting. _Almost._

The contact doesn’t last long, their hands letting go of one another almost as quickly as they had grabbed on, falling to their respective sides. Sophia’s thoughts race with a million and one thoughts she is far too wise to ruin the moment with. 

Instead, she focuses back on the cold, letting it contrast the quickly fading memory of Spencer’s awfully warm palm. 

“I guess we should get inside, then, and get to finding out who’s right.” 

Spencer nods eagerly at her suggestion. Sophia turns on her heel and makes her way to the door just a few feet away, Spencer following her as his eyes flicker about the side of the building visible. She’s focused on fiddling with the door knob as he gets distracted with a realization. 

“Hey, isn’t this place clo-” he’s cut off by the sound of the door opening, “Please tell me you didn’t just pick that lock.” 

Sophia moves off to the side, smiling innocently and clasping her hands behind her back, “Okay. I didn’t just pick that lock.” 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Spencer’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes staring into the very clearly _closed_ public music hall. 

“Do you trust me?”

“ _Should_ I trust you?” 

Sophia doesn’t answer, instead stepping inside the building and grabbing Spencer’s wrist to drag him in behind her. Her fingertips press into his pulse point and she can _feel_ how fast his heart is racing as she flings him in front of her, out of the way so she can shut the door behind them. Without a second thought, her hand flies out to the wall on her left and comes in contact with the light switch. She sees Spencer’s shoulders jump at the sudden brightness and starts to feel bad. Maybe she should have warned him about that. 

“Follow me,” she insists as she brushes off the unnecessary guilt, moving past him and beginning to navigate the aisles of seating that lead the way to the large stage at the front (or back, depending upon how you look at it) of the building. 

The irony is lost on her as Spencer begins to smile, unable to not see the comedy in the situation. Sophia is completely unaware that she’s just broken into a building with a _federal agent_. He considers it might be better that way. 

He chooses to instead gaze around the hall as they walk. It’s a large space, widest at the point in which the stage occupies, progressively shrinking inward until it reaches the sets of double doors where people would most likely enter to when the hall was _not_ closed. All the seats rest in neat lines and are the kind that are spring-loaded to stay folded up until someone physically presses them down to sit down. Each one is encased in a red velvet that matches the curtains on the stage, which have definitely seen better days. Regardless, the red pairs well with all the gold detailing across the walls, swirls to keep the eyes occupied in awe. 

“You know, you never really told me why you were so late,” Sophia calls over her shoulder once they reach just a few rows back from the stage. 

Spencer struggles to keep up, his shoes consistently getting caught on every little crevice. “It was work, but not in the way you were saying. My coworkers wanted to go out for drinks, and I had to convince them I was busy.”

“Convince them?” Sophia laughs once she reaches the last row, turning around quickly to watch Spencer fumble the last few steps, “Do you not have plans often?”

He wears a sheepish smile as he replies, “It’s part of the job description. All my coworkers have established families or just hang out with each other. Most people aren’t very….understanding of my line of work.” 

Sophia grins. “Good thing I am.” 

“You don’t even know what my line of work is.” 

“It’s important, and that’s enough for me,” she shrugs, motioning towards the stage, “Are we ready to perform our experiment, doctor?” 

It’s then that Spencer notices the grand piano situated in the center of the stage, perfectly centered in one of the heavy spotlights. 

“I hate to be a voice of reason, but what if we get caught?” he fidgets with his hands and his voice raises a few octaves as he asks her this, and she catches on to how anxious the scenario is making him. 

“I promise we won’t,” she reassures him, “Besides, you’re not going to be stuck up on the stage. You, my friend, will be in the best seat of the house.” 

They both smile as she points out a seat just a few rows back, dead center amongst the sea of red-clothed cushions. 

“Why’s it the best seat?” he asks, but she can tell her already knows the answer.

She humors him anyways. “All the acoustics meet there. Well, I mean, technically the prime seat for listening is a few _more_ rows back, but this seat is still close enough you’ll be able to watch me, the _performer_.” 

“Is visuals that important to a musical performance?” Spencer genuinely seems curious, no longer a brewing battle of wit between the two of them. 

Sophia nods, gentle as always, before earnestly answering him, “Absolutely. That’s most of what makes the difference.” 

“The difference?”

“Between just playing, and performing. It’s hard to explain since sometimes, if the performer is incredible, you can _hear_ it too. It’s best, well,” she pauses, motioning to the piano on the stage, “Best demonstrated.” 

Spencer nods eagerly. “Then, by all means -- demonstrate.” 

There’s still a shake to his voice that she’s sure can be attributed to his fear of being caught. Part of her considers how cruel it might be that she hasn’t let him in on the fact that she actually _can_ guarantee that no one will catch them, but the other half of her is just eager to get to the piano. 

She tries to take her time, keeping a steady pace as she makes it to the side of the stage and climbs the stairs. All her excitement and nerves come to head as she only hears the echoes of her footsteps on the wooden floor of the stage, spotlight blinding her so she can barely see Spencer’s silhouette in the seat she’d chosen for him. For the first time in years, as she takes her seat at the all-so-familiar bench, her hands begin to shake. They shake the same way they did at her first performance, back when her mother sat on the sidelines, her father filming somewhere in the crowd. The ringing in her ears _almost_ mimics the cheers she got out of that school auditorium, the disbelief on the adult’s face that a little girl could play _that_ well. They weren’t aware of the ache in her knuckles from months of practice, or how many times she’d read along the sheet music till her vision blurred. No one really thought about the work put in; they only cared for the outcome, the _performance._

Sophia has half the mind to finally clear her thoughts when she hears Spencer shout out, “Let the experiment begin!” 

She smiles, laughing just a bit as she knows it was his attempt at calming both their anxieties. She likes to imagine he can sense the nerves rattling in her chest relentlessly. 

But then, her fingertip hits the first note. And as her knuckles hug the ivory keys, every anxiety and intrusive thought that had previously shaken her evaporates. It’s the most natural thing in the world to her, she reminds herself, as she throws herself into a piece she’s played a thousand times before.

Spencer stays in his seat on the other side of the spotlight, taking note in the way the tremor in her shoulders has vanished. For a moment, he briefly considered that maybe, they should have had a more relaxed first date. Maybe dinner and a movie, or a coffee and walk around the town. Something with less expectations and laws broken. He even reconsiders if this _was_ a first date, and wonders what Sophia would call this. But once she plays the first few notes and begins to delve into a ballad Spencer is familiar with, he hears the Universe snap into place and knows that, first date or not, this was the right choice. 

He watches her intently. The way her hair falls into place over her shoulder, the way her eyes focus on her fingers as they glide across the keys effortlessly, her back never slipping from it’s proper posture of confidence. He tries to take in every aspect of the visual in front of him, as if she’s a portrait on display in the middle of the Louvre. 

He gets it. 

It hits him suddenly, the melody invading every thought and the sight of her taking his breath away. 

_She was right._

Her body moves with the music in the most miniscule of movements. The gentle sway of her shoulders, during particular build ups she leans into the piano ever-so-slightly, as if she couldn’t get close enough to the music if she tried. These aren’t just notes on a page, but instead he almost feels as if he’s watching as if she’s digging into somewhere deep in her soul, pulling out each note with such care it leaves him speechless. 

It’s over too fast. Three minutes and nineteen seconds isn’t enough time to soak in all her passion and years of practice, all the love she’s threaded through the piece. 

When it ends, she sighs out a deep breath, the one she always finds herself holding whenever she plays, and lets her palms fall to her sides against the bench. 

“So,” she finally calls out after taking a moment, “How was that?” 

She finally stood and made her way to the edge of the stage, painfully squinting for a more substantial glance at Spencer’s lingering reaction. She was shocked to see him frozen in place. 

“Spencer?” 

Her voice echoes for a second before Spencer finally comes back to life. 

“Was that….Was that Chopin?” she can’t see his smile in the glare, but she can hear it. 

“Yeah,” she laughs, sitting on the edge of the stage and pushing herself down as he stands up from his seat. She stumbles the slightest, and Spencer rushes to her side, hands out in preparation for her to completely collapse, “I’m fine! No worries. That was-” 

“Waltz in C-Sharp Minor,” Spencer finishes her sentence, absolutely beaming. 

“Yeah, yeah. Exactly,” she nods softly, looking him up and down. 

“That was incredible. Were you playing _without_ sheet music?” 

“I was. Chopin was my mother’s favorite, I used to play it for her all the time,” Sophia bites back a million words as she explains, careful to not unload _too_ much onto Spencer. Mommy issues weren’t usually a first date discussion topic. Maybe more along the lines of a fifth date, if he got lucky. 

“Your mom has classic taste,” Spencer’s eyes trail over Sophia’s face, watching her adrenaline wear off from the performance, “I’ve always been more of a Beethoven guy myself, though.” 

Sophia shakes her head with a smile. “You and my mom would get along _very_ well. I unfortunately have to disagree with _both_ of you, however.” 

“You mean to tell me you don’t like classical pianists?” 

“Not at all. But my favorite pianist would have to be a bit more modern choice.” 

“And who would that be?” 

It’s in her knowing smile, making Spencer’s chest ache in the best way. “Art Tatum.” 

“The jazz pianist?” 

“No, the astronaut,” she bites back, immediately realizing her level as sarcasm and adding, “Sorry. Yeah, the jazz pianist. I always preferred it to classical, and it drove my mother crazy.” 

“It’s still a tasteful choice,” he shrugs, “I guess I just never took you for such an adamant fan of jazz.” 

“I’m sure you have plenty of wrong assumptions about me, Doctor,” she teases light-heartedly, taking a few steps back until her lower-back bumps against the edge of the stage, “Care to find out more?” 

Her hand pats on the stage, and Spencer knows he never stood a chance. He doesn’t respond, instead taking his place at her side and helping her back up onto the stage, both of them laughing plenty at their struggle. 

“We should have taken the stairs,” he groans as he attempts to lift his upper body onto the stage and swing his legs up. 

“Yeah,” Sophia laughs, “We should have.” 

\---------------------------------------------------

The hours fly by just as quickly in person as they did over the phone. The conversation flows easily, banter and discussion of different pianists they enjoy echoing across the music hall just as Sophia’s playing had a mere hour before. 

They’d originally started out sitting side by side, legs spread out before them as they stared out at the empty seating. However, as time went by, they’d ended up in their current position, both laying down with their feet at opposite ends, heads side by side as they stared up at the arrayment of ropes and pulley systems above them. 

“You still owe me a last name, you know,” Sophia reminds Spencer once they’ve finally fallen into the first comfortable silence of the night. 

He can feel her turn her head to face him, her breath hitting his ear facing her. It sends shivers down his spine as he turns his own head. His eyes meet hers immediately. 

“Who said you proved me wrong?” he teases, and she realizes just how comfortable he's grown with her in the short time they’ve spent together tonight. 

“Really? Are you willing to die on that hill?” she scoffs, turning her head back upright, “You can’t earnestly tell me you still think playing and performing are the same thing.” 

Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t. I meant it when I said that performance was incredible.” 

His voice is so soft, so easy on her ears as he continues to look at her. She only looked away because she knew if she’d met his gaze any longer, she’d slip. She’d slip up, begin a fall she wasn’t sure she was _quite_ prepared for yet. 

“Thank you. I’m usually more known for my more informal pieces, but you seemed like a guy with finer taste.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spencer laughs. He means to put more defensiveness into the words, but the smile on her face wins over his childish side. 

“Would it really have been so impactful if I played a rendition of something like… say, Last Christmas by Wham?” her chin tilts back slightly as she says her words, and he’s mesmerized. He realizes he could watch her talk for hours, about anything and everything. Her words and cadence soothed him in a way that terrified him. 

“I mean….It’s still a classic to _some_ people, I guess.” 

“You guess?” she raises her voice unexpectedly, sitting straight up and causing Spencer to do the same, “Okay, yeah. Now you _really_ owe me that last name. You can’t just insult Wham and expect to get away with it!” 

He’s laughing, God, it seems he’s _always_ laughing with her. “I’m not insulting them! Like I said, some people consider them a classic!” 

“Yeah, _I’m_ one of those people, jerk!” she moves to smack his arm jokingly, but restrains herself. Just because he’s appeared more comfortable with physical contact this time, doesn’t mean she should push it, “So, out with it. What’s your last name?” 

“What if... I tell you my last name, if you tell me yours?” 

Her eyes flicker between his lips tucked into a subdued smirk and his eyes, kind and shining as ever. “That wasn’t the deal.” 

“I know, but it was worth a try.” 

“Why do you want to know my last name?” she can’t stop the question from rolling off her tongue, “It’s not like it’s anything special.” 

“Honestly?" Spencer doesn’t miss a beat replying, as if this is the first answer of the night he hasn’t had to think about. He just knows, which is what makes her ribs shake even more as he says, “I think I’d just like to know everything about you.” 

Sophia can’t reply. Not immediately. They just sit there, Spencer’s words hanging between them. She can tell he’s about to take them back, pretending he didn’t mean to cross the line. But if he did that, she just might die. 

So she speaks up. “Lucky for you, I’d also like to know everything about you.” 

He licks his lips as he smiles at this, eyes cast downward, a sudden shyness overtaking. 

“It’s Briar.” 

“What?” his head shoots back up at her voice. 

“My last name, it’s Briar.” 

“Oh,” he’s back to thinking over his words again, giving a moment of pause before replying, “Mine’s Reid.” 

Sophia opens her mouth to reply when they both suddenly hear something that causes them both to jump. 

_Another person._

It’s the faintest echo of footsteps and whistling, but it’s enough to send Sophia to her feet, sticking her hand out for Spencer to grab onto as he stands as well. She doesn’t give him the chance to question it as she begins as quietly of a sprint as possible across the stage, aiming for the shadows of the staircase. Spencer’s footsteps echo loudly in time with hers as she stumbles down the stairs, never once letting go of his hand. 

“I thought you said we wouldn’t get caught!” Spencer whisper-yells as they stay close to the wall, Sophia keeping up her pace as she leads them towards the door they’d originally entered through. 

“Yeah, two hours ago!” Sophia squeaks back as she finally makes it to the door. The first thing she does once she lets go of Spencer’s hand is reach out and smack all the switches downward, encasing them back in darkness before the assumed security guard arrives in the main auditorium they were in. 

She struggles as she begins to turn and tug on the door handle. 

“Hurry up!” Spencer’s voice is more shrill as they hear the footsteps getting closer. 

“It’s stuck!” Sophia starts to panic, and her palm continues to slip against the knob. 

_Why the fuck wouldn’t it open? She’s opened this door a hundred times, why now?_

Her eyes fail her as they refuse to adjust to the dark, but she can feel Spencer’s breath as the back of her neck and he navigates around her. “Here, let me try.” 

She lets go and almost steps back, but Spencer blocks her from moving away as he chooses to simply reach around her. If she wasn’t so worried about getting caught, she would have paid more attention to the way his cologne invaded her senses. It was a warm musk, comforting and familiar like autumn. 

Spencer opens the door on his first try. 

It swings outward, and he immediately is shoving Sophia out in front of him before following and slamming the door behind them. 

“You said we wouldn’t get caught!” his voice is now louder, in the safety of the street and no longer trespassing. 

Sophia whips around to face him, expecting a face of anger or annoyance. She’s astonished to be met with a look of some strange middle ground between panic and glee instead. 

“I honestly thought we wouldn’t! I didn’t think we’d be here long enough to run into the guard. I’m sorry,” her apology is sincere despite the grin that grows on her face. 

Spencer doesn’t reply, instead taking a deep breath as his eyes continue a dance from staring into Sophia’s eyes, and glancing at her lips. 

_Oh God, he’s gonna kiss me._

Sophia curses this thought as they stay silent. She’s convinced it’s just the adrenaline that has his pupils blown. The fluttering in her chest was absolutely _not_ because of him, but the thrill of danger they’d just experienced. 

Except it isn’t. 

Because suddenly, as Sophia tries to expel any hopeful thought of Spencer kissing her, he does just that. 

He kisses her. And it’s fast, she almost misses it. Just as quickly as he bends down and places his lips on hers, he’s pulling back, blush spreading and a look of disbelief on his face. 

She can’t respond. Her mind goes completely blank. She doesn’t think she could formulate a single coherent thought or response in that moment, even if she were at gunpoint. 

“I’m sorry-” Spencer begins to say, voice cracking, but she doesn’t let him finish the sentence. Sophia presses herself up onto her tippy toes, taking advantage of the fact she can’t overthink it, and kisses him back. She lets her lips linger against his for a moment longer than he had. 

He tastes like mint. And she smells his cologne again, musk and vanilla and everything wonderful in this world. 

She wants to laugh at the way both their kisses fall on bad timing. He doesn’t quite kiss her back, but when she’s taken a step back from him, grinning ear to ear with rosey cheeks, he matches her happiness. 

“Don’t apologize,” is all she can think to say as he watches her. 

“Noted,” he still sounds breathless, but she doesn’t blame it on their running from getting caught. 

He’s doing that thing with his hands again, foreign objects she wishes he’d place somewhere on her, _anywhere._ She knows it’s not going to happen by the nerves clearly unraveling beneath his surface, but it’s nice to dream about. 

“I should probably get going, it’s getting late,” she finally whispers reluctantly. Truthfully, if given the chance, she thinks she’d stand outside in the cold, awkward silence with him all night. 

Her words finally break his trance, as he comes back to life, immediately looking around at the empty sidewalk around them. “Oh, yeah! I have work tomorrow, so I uh… I should get going, too.” 

She notes the hesitant cadence in his voice. She doesn’t even have to wonder if he’d do the same, stay if given the chance -- she knows he would. 

And that knowing is the only thing that gives her the confidence to invade his space one last time for that night, her lips landing on his cheek this time rather than his lips. She swears she feels his pulse again, racing the same way it had when they’d first entered the music hall. The heat of his blush nearly burns her lips. She pulls back quickly, but slowly enough to stay steady as she looks up at him, gleaming. 

“Goodnight, Spencer Reid,” she’s still whispering, reasons unbeknownst to her. 

“Goodnight, Sophia Briar,” he whispers back, reasons possibly known to him. 

Before she turns to leave, she waves a threatening finger at him, “Text me once you get home safe. Got it?” 

A look of pure content in his eyes is complimenting his still-visible blush when he replies, “Got it. And you do the same.” 

She just nods in response, turning away from him before she embarasses herself and ruins everything that’s just happened. She hears his footsteps head off in the opposite direction as she starts her way home, mind beginning to echo the events of the night, and specifically the shade of brown his eyes had shone after she kissed him. 

_Hazel,_ she mentally recites. _They were hazel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me learning a different word besides laughter and smile challenge :) i hope if anyone is reading this you're enjoying it because i know i am while writing it which is very nice!! also happy holidays to anyone who sees this!!!


	7. slow it down

_chapter 5 - slow it down_

He should call her. 

Spencer _knows_ he _has_ to call her eventually. He’s also aware of the added anxiety that comes with every day he puts off contacting her. It’s been two days, and the last exchange they had was over text that same night, informing one another they’d made it home safely. Her text to him had been burned into every waking thought since he’d first read it. 

**SOPHIA:** _Made it home safely. Sleep well, Dr. Reid. :)_

He hated that smiley face emoticon, practically mocking him. He knew she went home wonderstruck, mind milling with all the fresh opportunities and thoughts of the future that came with their kiss. Spencer _envied_ her. God, he envied her more than he could ever admit to her. Because while she went home blissful, he went home and overthought. There were plenty of emotions swelling in his chest he _couldn’t_ put a name to, but there were also a few he should have seen coming. 

Guilt, fear, anxiety, euphoria cut off by more guilt, apprehension, restlessness, apologeticness, and guilt once more.

The most prominent was obviously guilt. 

He couldn’t help but feel guilty for hundreds of reasons. All he could think about on the way home is how he hadn’t thought of Maeve. More specifically, he hadn’t thought of Maeve in over twenty-four hours for the first time since the incident. And to make things worse, within those twenty-four hours he had forgotten her, he had _kissed_ another girl. He couldn’t even blame Sophia for his emotions - this was all on him. 

It was apt punishment then, that he spent the entirety of the BAU’s paperwork day to let the guilt gnaw away at his insides, possibly all the way through his stomach, his liver, maybe even his bones. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d wasted the entire day until everyone began to depart, bidding each other goodnight and farewell, a few stopping by Hotch’s office to drop off any physical copies of case reports necessary. 

The only person who lingers in the bullpen as long as Spencer does is JJ. And as he glances over his monitor to see her typing intently, he’s never been more thankful. He leaves a half-done report open on his desktop as he suddenly stands and makes his way over to her desk. 

“Hey, Spence. Heading out for the night?” JJ asks him without ever looking up from her screen. 

“No, uh, not yet. I actually… I need advice.” 

His words immediately halt her incessant typing, hands pausing and eyes immediately flicking up at him in curiosity. “Advice? About what?” 

“Do you remember that friend of mine we talked about on the jet when we were coming home from our last case?” he pauses and watches JJ shift completely, her full attention on him as she begins to smile deviously, “It’s about her.” 

“You want advice, about a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Who you insist is just a friend?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“Well, then,” JJ leans back in her office chair, eyebrows perked up, “I’m all ears.” 

Spencer takes a moment to drag one of the chairs from the nearest desk to sit across from her, knees nearly bumping as he slumps slightly. “I think I’m screwing it up. It’s barely begun, and I’m screwing it up.” 

“Woah, woah, woah. Back up, Spence. Before I even ask how you think you’re screwing ‘it’ up, I need to know what ‘it’ is,” JJ uses air quotes as she speaks, her previous smirk now faded. She’s clearly caught onto the fact that this cry for help is not only serious, but a difficult one for Spencer at that. 

Spencer takes a deep breath to compose himself, before explaining the situation as calmly as he can. “Two days ago, we went out on...a date, I think. Neither of us really said it was a date, but it felt like a date.” 

“Okay, so you went on a date. That’s good, Spence!” JJ has put on her sisterly tone of voice, the same one she uses to tease Spencer as well as when she acts as his number one cheerleader at times. 

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“That doesn’t sound like you’re screwing it u-” 

Spencer cuts off JJ. “I haven’t contacted her since.” 

There’s a pregnant pause. “Define ‘contacted’.” 

“I haven’t called, or texted her since that night.” 

JJ dramatically gasps, “Spencer! We haven’t even had a case in days now! Why aren’t you reaching out? Did the date go badly?” 

“No! No, not at all,” Spencer shakes his head hard enough at the assumption that it makes him dizzy, “The date went great. She was the one who planned it out and it went amazing. I mean, up until the very end….” he trails off, mind roaming back to the moment he fucked it all up, “I kissed her at the end.” 

“You know, normally, people think that’s a good sign. Did she not kiss back?” JJ leans forward, resting her chin on her palms as her elbows dig into her thighs. 

“She did! Her reaction… it isn’t the issue. I just…” JJ is patient as Spencer thinks out the right words, “It made me happy. It made me so goddamn happy, JJ. It’s all I could think about yesterday. But...But today…” he finally trails off, giving up on explaining himself. The more he says out loud, the more ridiculous he’s beginning to feel. 

“Today… you’re… not happy about it?” JJ questions. 

“Today, I feel guilty.”

“About what?” 

It doesn’t take long after the words have left her mouth that JJ seems to put the pieces together, slowly and then all at once. This was about Maeve. Her mouth falls open into a small and silent ‘oh’. 

“Yeah,” it’s the only thing Spencer can think to say as JJ continues to just stare at him like he’s a wounded puppy. He hates it. 

He’s beginning to regret coming to her for advice when she finally speaks up again, “You shouldn’t feel guilty for being happy, Spence.” 

Her words are so quiet and heart-felt, so understanding, he almost misses them. 

“I know, but I still do.” 

JJ suddenly leans over and places a tender hand on Spencer’s knee, giving a light squeeze. This moment is why JJ is Spencer Reid’s best friend. Once she moves past her smothering sympathy, her presence is the most comforting he’s ever known, only comparable to his own mother. 

“Do you want to know my biggest regret I’ve had with Will?” she asks him, and he looks up curiously, unsure of what her marriage had to do with anything. 

“Having Henry before you were married?” Spencer guesses.

JJ laughs loudly, shaking her head, “No. Not quite. When we first got together, I spent a _really_ long time in denial and doing everything to hide our relationship.” 

Spencer crinkles his nose, “Were you ashamed of him?” 

“And that ridiculous accent of his? Always,” they both take a moment to laugh at her joke, “I kept him a secret because… because I was happy. And that _terrified_ me. But there came a moment I had to accept it. I guess one morning, I woke up, realized how rare happiness is in our line of work, and decided to cling to it while I could.” 

“Are you saying she’s my Will?”

“No! Not necessarily. But even if she’s not a long term thing, I think you need to go easy on yourself. You’ve gotta be happy sometime, Spence, and if _she_ makes you happy… Just, don’t think too much into it, please?” 

JJ’s hand hasn’t left Spencer’s knee, and gives it yet another squeeze as she finishes her plea. When he looks in her eyes, he can tell she means it. He can see in her eyes she wants him to be happy just as badly as _he_ wants to be happy. 

“So… you’re saying I should call her?” 

“Oh, you should _definitely_ call her. And you better get started on how you’re going to make the past two days up to her!” JJ finally drops her hand back into her own lap, leaning back and beaming, “Besides, you know you can always ask her if you guys could slow things down. Just because you kissed her doesn't mean you have to marry her next week.” 

Spencer bites his lip, nodding fervently as he tries to force himself to truly understand the advice given to him. “Okay. Got it. Call her, and take it slow. Any other wise words of advice?” 

“Just… Don’t take this happiness for granted. After everything we see, we all deserve to go home to that at the end of the day.” 

“I won’t,” he promises, but he can’t tell if the promise is to JJ, or to himself. 

Spencer rushes, giving himself no time to overthink the advice. JJ watches him with a lazy smile as he immediately jumps out of the chair and heads over to his desk, closing out the half-finished document and saving it for another day before shoving his belongings half-haphazardly into his bag. He can’t waste another second. 

On his way to the elevator, he types out an impulsive text to Sophia. 

**SPENCER:** What are you doing right now?

He presses the elevator call button as he almost immediately receives a response, the teeth of guilt clamping down once more. 

**SOPHIA:** Why? 

**SPENCER:** Are you busy? 

The bell dings as the doors open for Spencer to enter the elevator in his lonesome, thumb jamming the lobby floor button until it glows. 

He sees the cursed dots signaling Sophia is typing, waiting with bated breath. He’s sorely let down as they appear, disappear, appear, and finally, disappear for good. His fingers start to twitch at his side. He doesn't recognize them as they click on Sophia’s contact suddenly, dialing her number. 

_Don’t overthink it._

“Hello?” His anxiety only heightens at the sound of her voice over the line. 

“Listen, I’m so sorry. I really am. But please, _please,_ let me make it up to you. Are you busy right now?” 

She doesn’t answer him for a moment, and all he can hear is the creaking of the elevator making its way down the floors. 

“Give me a reason.” 

“What?”

“Give me a reason why you didn’t call, or text.” 

It’s his turn to go silent as the elevator reaches his desired floor, dinging again as the doors slide back open. The lobby of the building is nearly empty, deathly silent, and all he can do is stare straight ahead. 

“I can’t.” 

“Was it work? If it was, it’s fine, Spencer. I get it-”

“It wasn’t work. I wish I could say it was. God, I’m sorry,” he fumbles in the slightest with his words as he watches the elevator doors awkwardly close finally after a few moments. There’s an awful squealing right before they stop moving. “It’s my turn to be selfish. I don’t deserve it, but let me be selfish and do this for me.” 

She recognizes her own words, from at the book shop. He can hear it in the way her breathing falters before she finally says, “You have thirty minutes.” 

She hangs up before he can question what she means, but seconds later his phone pings with a text from her listing an address. 

Despite all his FBI training, Spencer doesn’t think twice as he punches back on the elevator buttons, sending the elevator back in motion for the first floor. 

_Don’t take this happiness for granted_ , JJ’s voice echoes in his head the whole ride down. 

\-------------------------

Twenty eight minutes. It takes Spencer twenty eight minutes to arrive at the address that Sophia sent him, now standing in front of a cherry-red door to an apartment downtown. He hesitates in knocking as his heart races; he still has two minutes to get his shit together. 

It only takes him a minute before his knuckles echo bangs down the empty hallway. 

It takes her longer than expected to answer the door, and he realizes she might have given up on him showing up on time. He hopes his lack of breath and the layer of sweat that won’t leave his forehead can preach for him to her of the urgency of the situation. 

He barely notices the click of her door unlocking when suddenly, it swings wide open, her slightly shocked face coming into view as she says, “You made it.”

“Barely,” he tries to crack a grin, cut the tension he already feels building, but she simply silently opens the door and motions for him to come in. 

Her apartment is comfortable. It’s decorated with warmer tones than Spencer’s place, warm cream walls and splashes of red decoration. A book shelf off to the side of the living room catches his eye. She doesn’t have nearly as many as he does, but then again, no one does. What impresses him more is the three bottom shelves that are stuffed with vinyl records, some looking newer than others based on how frayed the spines of their thin covers are. The record player sits nearby on a taller-than-average coffee table. The only other item on the table is a framed photo of a man with a young girl. Spencer is racking his mind for whether or not that would be Sophia when she clears her throat. 

“Sorry it’s a little messy,” she apologizes, grabbing a blanket that was thrown across the couch and beginning to fold it, “I have a roommate. She’s just out of town right now.” 

“No worries, it’s neater than my apartment right now,” he assures, hoping to alleviate any embarrassment she was covering up, “Are the records yours?” 

His question sparks something in her, dropping the now folded blanket and happily making her way to his side in front of the record player, “Yes! Yeah, my roommate is more of an iPod and CDs person.” 

“So the photo....that’s you?” Spencer points at the frame, careful to not bump it. 

“Me and my dad,” she says, picking up the frame, smiling at it with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, “He was a music professor. It’s how he met my mom, actually.” 

Spencer nods, smiling as she replaces the frame. The sweet moment of weakness immediately springs back into tension as they finally face each other. He already knows what’s coming before she says it. 

“So, you never called me.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Spencer,” she looks him up and down, looking more disappointed than anything, “I mean, it sucked, but you don’t have to apologize.” 

“I do, though. Because I know you’re probably thinking I didn’t call because I didn’t enjoy the night with you, but I did. And that’s precisely why I didn’t call.” 

His words leave her confused, stunned into silence. He can see her trying to work through it, make sense of it, so he continues on. 

“I loved spending time with you. The night couldn’t have been more perfect, and you’re one of...you’re one of the nicest people I’ve met in a long time,” he pauses, giving her a chance to absorb it all before rambling more, “I- I guess I’ve just had a rough year. Rough enough that I felt _guilty_ for how happy our date made me. And now that I’ve said that outloud, I kind of realize how stupid I soun-” 

Spencer cuts himself off as a flicker of a grin appears on her face, and it’s his turn to be dumbfounded.

“So it _was_ a date?” she whispers, looking at him, hope gleaming through her eyelashes. 

He takes a second before nodding with full confidence. “Yeah, it was. It was our first date, and I really hope it isn’t our last. I just....I need to take it slow. And I really hope you understand that.” 

She laughs softly, shaking her head, her hair swinging in its loose ponytail, “Spencer, of course. It’s _normal_ to want to take a new relationship, romantic or platonic, slow.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

They’re both shining, a relief flooding over them mutually. Spencer suddenly couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why he ever feared her rejecting him. 

A more serious look overtakes her face, however, as she says, “I’m sorry that your year has convinced you to be guilty for being happy, though. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I kind of know that feeling, and it kind of sucks.” 

“It’s life,” Spencer shrugs.

“No,” Sophia disagrees, “Being happy is definitely life, but the guilt isn’t. Guilt is…”

“A trauma response,” Spencer finishes her thought for her, “I’m feeling guilty because I’m convinced past events should still affect me more, while simultaneously expecting this to fall apart. I didn’t call you to jump start that, I guess.” 

“This doesn’t have to fall apart if we don’t want it to,” Sophia says in a matter-of-fact tone that has Spencer jealous all over again. She’s so sure in this, he wishes for a piece of her optimism.

The closest he can get is whispering, “I don’t want it to.” 

“Then it won’t. We can still go on as many dates as we want, waste as many hours on the phone as you have to spare. We can go as slow as you need, and speed it up whenever you feel up to the challenge. Don’t overthink it,” she’s oblivious as she quotes the words JJ had used on him not even an hour before. 

It makes him shamelessly smile as he replies, “I’ll do my best to do that. _Under_ think it, if you will.” 

She laughs along with him at his joke-that-wasn’t- _really_ -a-joke, before settling into silently looking into his eyes. She’s not looking at him like some lost puppy, even with all her sympathy. He isn’t a problem to be solved, a situation to be handled. She’s looking at him like she wants to do right by him, even with all his commitment issues and future anxieties.

“I have one request, though,” she finally says, ending their stares, “Next time, will you call me after?” 

“Of course,” Spencer smiles with his lips gently puckered in embarrassment, eyes diverting themselves to the ground as he nods ever-so-slightly. 

For a moment, they’re both quiet again, standing in the middle of her living room. Sophia enjoying the end of the anxiety that had wrecked her chest with every passing day of no word from Spencer, and Spencer simply taking JJ’s advice - enjoying the moment. No strings attached, he revels in the happiness. A happiness he doesn’t want to end, truthfully.

So he decides it shouldn’t, not yet, not tonight. “Have you eaten dinner yet?” 

Sophia gives him a quizzical look, “Odd question, but surprisingly, the answer is no. I burnt this new dish I was trying to make… Why?” 

“I know this twenty-four hour diner nearby, and was thinking of stopping by there on my way home. Care to join?” Spencer tries to sound more poetic than the moment is, standing as straight as possible with his chest puffed out, more in hope than arrogance. 

“Is _the_ Spencer Reid asking me out to dinner right now?” Sophia teases gently, but he has no doubt in what her answer is as she turns away from him, grabbing a coat that had been draped over the back of her couch. 

“Is _the_ Sophia Briar agreeing to accompany me to dinner right now?” Spencer banters, watching her shrug on the coat. It’s plain black, with glossy buttons along the front contrasting the soft cloth material. 

She brushes right past Spencer, heading towards the door where a small table he hadn’t even noticed resides, grabbing the keys and phone that sit on top of it. “That she is. What did you say about...taking it slow?” 

“This is taking it slow. It’s only our second date.” 

“Spontaneous dinner dates aren’t how _I_ define taking it slow,” her voice is melodic, enjoying the light-hearted atmosphere around them that lets them poke fun at each other this way. She can tell Spencer doesn’t do this often, and she’s aware she usually takes longer than two dates to act this way. But there’s an agreement there between them, that this fluke is fine - they are each other’s exceptions. Plain and simple. 

“I promise to keep my lips to myself, tonight.” 

Sophia isn’t expecting this, eyebrows shooting up at Spencer’s cheesy grin. He realizes very quickly how much he enjoys surprising her, whether it be with random dinner invites or sentences she clearly didn’t picture before leaving his mouth. 

“Scout’s honor?” she presses as she turns around and swings her front door open. She turns back to face him before he even answers. 

“Scout’s honor,” he promises.

“Then, by all means Mr. Slow, lead the way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i named this chapter after my favorite lumineer's song :-) no the song doesn't have anything to do with it necessarily. have a wonderful evening.

**Author's Note:**

> this story is also posted on wattpad under the same username! the only difference is in this version, the main character is an OC, where as on wattpad I maintain her as Y/N with she/her pronouns!! important aspects of story will stay the absolute same, only change will be additional detailing and less vagueness regarding Sophia Briar (or Y/N, on wattpad).


End file.
